Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art Fifth Series No. 39 Vol. I September 27 1884 by Various

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Translator: Henry Holt

THE MAN WITH THE BROKEN EAR

BY HENRY HOLT

NEW YORK HOLT & WILLIAMS 1872

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by HENRY HOLT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.

DEDICATION OF THE FIRST EDITION.

DEAR LEYPOLDT:

H. H.

The Translator has placed a few explanatory Notes at the end of the volume. They are referred to by numbers in the text.

THE MAN

WITH THE BROKEN EAR.

WHEREIN THEY KILL THE FATTED CALF TO CELEBRATE THE RETURN OF A FRUGAL SON.

On the 18th of May, 1859, M. Renault, formerly professor of physics and chemistry, now a landed proprietor at Fontainebleau, and member of the Municipal Council of that charming little city, himself carried to the post-office the following letter:--

"MY DEAR CHILD:

"The good news you sent us from St. Petersburg caused us the greatest joy. Your poor mother had been ailing since winter, but I had not spoken to you about it from fear of making you uneasy while so far from home. As for myself, I had not been very well; and there was yet a third person who was languishing from not seeing you. But content yourself, my dear Leon: we have been recuperating more and more since the time of your return is almost fixed. We begin to believe that the mines of the Ural will not swallow up that which is dearer to us than all the world. Thank God! that fortune which you have so honorably and so quickly made will not have cost your life, nor even your health, since you tell us you have been growing fat off there in the desert. If you have not finished up all your business out there, so much the worse for you: there are three of us who have sworn that you shall never go back again. You will not find it hard to accede, for you will be happy among us. Such, at least, is the opinion of Clementine.... I forget that I was pledged not to name her. Master Bonnivet, our excellent neighbor, has not rested content with investing your funds in a good mortgage, but has also drawn up, in his leisure moments, a most edifying little indenture, which now lacks nothing but your signature. Our worthy mayor has ordered, on your account, a new official scarf, which is on the way from Paris. You will have the first benefit of it. Your apartment is elegant, in proportion to your present fortune. You are to occupy....; but the house has changed so in three years, that my description would be incomprehensible to you. M. Audret, the architect of the imperial chateau, directed the work. He actually wanted to construct me a laboratory worthy of Th?nard or Duprez. I earnestly protested against it, and said that I was not yet worthy of one, as my celebrated work on the Condensation of Gases had only reached the fourth chapter. But as your mother was in collusion with the old scamp of a friend, it has turned out that science has henceforth a temple in our house--a regular sorcerer's den, according to the picturesque expression of your old Gothon: it lacks nothing, not even a four-horse-power steam engine. Alas! what can I do with it? I am confident, nevertheless, that the expenditure will not be altogether lost to the world. You are not going to sleep upon your laurels. Oh, if I had only had your fortune when I had your youth! I would have dedicated my days to pure science, instead of losing the best part of them among those poor young men who got nothing from my lectures but an opportunity to read Paul de Kock. I would have been ambitious!--I would have striven to connect my name with the discovery of some great general law, or at least with the invention of some very useful apparatus. It is too late now; my eyes are worn out, and the brain itself refuses to work. Take your turn, my boy! You are not yet twenty-six, the Ural mines have given you the wherewithal to live at ease, and, for yourself alone, you have no further wants to satisfy; the time has come to work for humanity. That you will do so, is the strongest wish and dearest hope of your doting old father, who loves you and who waits for you with open arms.

"J. RENAULT.

"P. S. According to my calculations, this letter ought to reach Berlin two or three days before you. You have been already informed by the papers of the 7th inst. of the death of the illustrious Humboldt. It is a cause of mourning to science and to humanity. I have had the honor of writing to that great man several times in my life, and he once deigned to reply, in a letter which I piously cherish. If you happen to have an opportunity to buy some personal souvenir of him, a bit of his handwriting or some fragment of his collections, you will bring me a real pleasure."

A month after the departure of this letter, the son so eagerly looked for returned to the paternal mansion. M. and Mme. Renault, who went to meet him at the depot, found him taller, stouter, and better-looking in every way. In fact, he was no longer merely a remarkable boy, but a man of good and pleasing proportions. Leon Renault was of medium height, light hair and complexion, plump and well made. His large blue eyes, sweet voice, and silken beard indicated a nature sensitive rather than powerful. A very white, round, and almost feminine neck contrasted singularly with a face bronzed by exposure. His teeth were beautiful, very delicate, a little inclined backward, and very evenly shaped. When he pulled off his gloves, he displayed two small and rather pudgey hands, quite firm and yet pleasantly soft, neither hot nor cold, nor dry nor damp, but agreeable to the touch and cared-for to perfection.

As he was, his father and mother would not have exchanged him for the Apollo Belvedere. They embraced him rapturously, overwhelming him with a thousand questions, most of which he, of course, failed to answer. Some old friends of the family, a doctor, an architect, and a notary, had run to the depot with the good old people; each one of them in turn gave him a hug, and asked him if he was well, and if he had had a pleasant journey. He listened patiently and even joyfully to this common-place music whose words did not signify much, but whose melody went to the heart because it came from the heart.

They had been there a good quarter of an hour, the train had gone puffing on its way, the omnibuses of the various hotels had started one after another at a good trot up the street leading to the city, and the June sun seemed to enjoy lighting up this happy group of excellent people. But Madame Renault cried out all at once that the poor child must be dying of hunger, and that it was barbarous to keep him waiting for his dinner any longer. There was no use in his protesting that he had breakfasted at Paris, and that the voice of hunger appealed to him less strongly than that of joy. They all got into two carriages, the son beside his mother, the father opposite, as if he could not keep his eyes off his boy. A wagon came behind with the trunks, long boxes, chests, and the rest of the traveller's baggage. At the entrance of the town, the hackmen cracked their whips, the baggage-men followed the example, and this cheerful clatter drew the people to their doors and woke up for an instant the quietude of the streets. Madame Renault threw her glances right and left, searching out the spectators of her triumph, and saluting with most cordial affability people she hardly knew at all. And more than one mother saluted her, too, without knowing her; for there is no mother indifferent to such kinds of happiness, and, moreover, Leon's family was liked by everybody. And the neighbors, meeting each other, said with a satisfaction free from jealousy:

"That is Renault's son, who has been at work three years in the Russian mines, and now has come to share his fortune with his old parents."

Leon also noticed several familiar faces, but not all that he wished to see. For he bent over an instant to his mother's ear, saying: "And Clementine?" This word was pronounced so low and so close that M. Renault himself could not tell whether it was a word or a kiss. The good lady smiled tenderly, and answered but a single word: "Patience!" As if patience were a virtue very common among lovers!

"Soup!" cried Gothon.

Madame Renault took the arm of her son, contrary to all the laws of etiquette, and without even apologizing to the honored guests present. She scarcely excused herself, even, for helping the son before the company. Leon let her have her own way, and took it all smilingly: there was not a guest there who was not ready to upset his soup over his waistcoat rather than taste it before Leon.

"Mother!" cried Leon, spoon in hand, "this is the first time for three years that I've tasted good soup." Madame Renault felt herself blush with satisfaction, and Gothon was so overcome that she dropped a plate. Both fancied that possibly he had spoken to please their self-conceit; but nevertheless he spoke truly. There are two things in this world which a man does not often find away from home: the first is good soup; the second is disinterested love.

If I should attempt here an accurate enumeration of all the dishes that appeared on the table, there would not be one of my readers whose mouth would not water. I believe, indeed, that more than one delicate lady would be in danger of an attack of indigestion. Suppose, if you please, that such a list would reach nearly to the end of the volume, leaving me but a single page on which to write the marvellous history of Fougas. Therefore I forthwith return to the parlor, where coffee is already served.

Leon took scarcely half of his cup: but do not let that lead you to infer that the coffee was too hot, or too cold, or too sweet. Nothing in the world would have prevented his drinking it to the last drop, if a knock at the street-door had not stopped it just opposite his heart.

The minute which followed appeared to him interminable. Never in his travels had he encountered such a long minute. But at length Clementine appeared, preceded by the worthy Mlle. Virginie Sambucco, her aunt; and the mandarins who smiled on the etag?re heard the sound of three kisses. Wherefore three? The superficial reader, who pretends to foresee things before they are written, has already found a very probable explanation. "Of course," says he, "Leon was too respectful to embrace the dignified Mlle. Sambucco more than once, but when he came to Clementine, who was soon to become his wife, he very properly doubled the dose." Now sir, that is what I call a premature judgment! The first kiss fell from the mouth of Leon upon the cheek of Mlle. Sambucco; the second was applied by the lips of Mlle. Sambucco to the right cheek of Leon; the third was, in fact, an accident g put on the bed. Simple airing is not enough; I have known the chill of linen set a patient off into a shivering fit, although the nurse has been particularly strong in the airing line.

It is absolutely necessary that all the bedding used in illness shall be thoroughly aired, but, of course, it should never be done in the sick-room. Unhappily, it is by no means rare to find the fire screened from a patient by clothes-horse or chairs, covered with damp things, the vapour from which ought to be sufficient warning of the folly of such a practice. A good rule in this connection is that everything, down to cups and saucers, shall be removed from the sick-room as soon as soiled, and only returned to it in a condition for immediate use.

Re-making the patient's bed is our next consideration. If well enough to go into another room, he should either be carried there, or laid on a sofa and wheeled in. As soon as he is out of the way, the window of the sick-room should be thrown open to its widest, and the bed-clothes taken off one by one, well shaken, and left so exposed that the air can circulate freely around them. The mattresses should share the same treatment, and if possible, be left for a few minutes before being replaced. The patient will indeed be peculiar who does not enjoy the refreshment of a bed thus aired.

But in helpless illness, the changing of bedding is a more complicated matter, and needs practice to make perfect. There are two ways of changing the under-sheet The first may be used when the patient is not quite helpless, and the nurse has to work alone. The soiled sheet is freed at the top, and after the removal of pillows and bolster, is rolled up to the patient's head; the clean sheet, after being well tucked in at the top, is loosely rolled in such a way as to lie close against the soiled one; they must now be worked down together, rolling the soiled, and unrolling the clean, the patient raising himself on elbows and feet just enough for the nurse to pass the sheets under him. In this way it is possible to get the under-sheet smooth and tight; but it is not an easy thing, and an assistant should be had if possible. If help is to be had, and in all cases where the patient is quite powerless, it is better to adopt the second plan. Remove the pillows and bolster, so that the patient lies quite flat in bed; turn him over on his side with his back to you. Loosen the sheet lengthways, and proceed with the rolling and unrolling as before, till the rolls come close up to the patient's back. Depress the mattress under him, whilst the assistant draws the sheet through, and in so doing, slowly turns the patient on his back. He will now be lying on the clean sheet, and the difficulty is over. The trained nurse will be able to do this without removing the upper clothing, and in no case should all the coverings be taken away. Draw-sheets may be removed in the same way, but being small, are easier to manage. Some people tack or pin the clean to the dirty, and draw through whilst an assistant keeps the patient raised. Changing the upper clothes is not such a serious undertaking, though seldom properly managed by amateurs. The counterpane and blanket may be taken quite off the bed, and given to an assistant to shake, outside the room; but the sheet must never be removed without an immediate substitute. A good plan is to loosen the soiled sheet all round, tuck the clean one well in at the foot, and draw the free end upwards, under the dirty sheet, which is gradually drawn away or rolled up. As a general rule, the patient's bed should be made and his night-shirt changed at least once a day, and cases where this is not feasible ought not to come within the scope of home-nursing.

If a pair of clean sheets a day cannot be managed, one may be made to do, by letting yesterday's clean upper sheet be to-day's lower one; but draw-sheets must be changed as soon as soiled, irrespective of number. Where mackintosh is used, it should also be frequently changed, washed over, and thoroughly dried, in the open air if possible.

The patient's bed, it will be seen from the directions for making it, must never stand so that one side is against the wall, nor must it be in a direct current of air; but it is well if it can be so arranged as to face the fire and at the same time allow the patient to amuse himself by looking out of window. In badly finished houses, there is often considerable draught from cracks in door or window frame, and from this the patient must be carefully guarded by the judicious use of screens.

We now turn to consider how the sick-room may be kept in that state of perfect cleanliness essential alike to the patient's comfort and recovery; and of all neglected points, this is perhaps the one most frequently forgotten or ignored; not one in a hundred of home-nurses having a conception of her duty in this respect. Difficult it undoubtedly is; but where the patient can be removed to another room for an hour or two once a week, it is quite possible for even inexperience to be successful.

We will suppose the weekly removal has taken place, and the nurse has to make hay while the sun shines. She first strips the bed, sending the clothes into another room to be aired; and throwing the window open to its widest, she directs her attention to the grate. The best way of removing the ashes is to carefully collect all the large pieces of coal and cinder, and then very gently draw the ashes away into a piece of stiff paper, which folded over them, will prevent any dust rising in their transit. After cleaning grate and fire-irons and making up the fire, the nurse turns her attention to the carpet, which, after being well strewn with damp tea-leaves, should be briskly swept with a hand-broom. If the furniture is simple, it may be washed over with a wet cloth and dried, all cushions or stuffed furniture being beaten out of the room. The window, often overlooked, should be nicely cleaned; and then the bed being re-made, the patient may be brought back into a room thoroughly well cleaned and aired. It is not necessary that a nurse should herself perform all menial work; indeed, it is much better she should not; but she ought to see that the above directions are faithfully carried out. For the rest of the week, the carpet should be wiped over with a damp cloth, tied to the end of a long broom, and the furniture well and quickly dusted. It is not enough to merely wipe over furniture and let the dust loose; the duster should be folded over bit by bit as it becomes soiled, and once or twice during the process of dusting, shaken out of a window in another room or in the staircase. A room thus treated will keep in perfect order for some time; but should the illness be long, an effort must be made to take the carpet up about every six weeks or two months, that it may be beaten and thoroughly aired. If carpets are made in the sensible fashion of squares, secured by brass nails with broad heads, there will be little difficulty in managing this; but it will not hurt the carpet to let it remain loose.

In cases where the weekly removal is impossible, the floor must be wiped over carefully every day with a damp cloth, and tea-leaves used now and then, the patient being protected from the dust by screens; but this plan is only for use as a last resource in extreme cases. Under such circumstances, it is not a bad plan to have a small portion of the furniture, say a chair or table and an ornament or two, removed each day and thoroughly cleaned, out of the room; otherwise, it is almost impossible to keep things in proper order, in spite of daily dusting.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

Madge wakened with the weary sensation of one who has passed through a long nightmare. It was some minutes before she could recall the incidents of the previous day; still longer before she could realise the unhappy meaning of the scene with Philip, and the fact that Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy had found in her conduct cause for grave displeasure.

Surely she had been acting very wickedly, when those three, who were dearer to her than all the world beside, turned from her, and were vexed as well as pained by what she was doing, so far as they understood it. Surely Mr Beecham must be mistaken in the course he was pursuing--she did not even now doubt the goodness and generosity of his motives. There was only one way in which she could set the minds of her friends at ease; and that she must adopt, no matter what it might cost herself. She dare not hope that Philip would be readily satisfied and come back to her; but at least he should understand that she had been thinking of his interest more than of herself. And Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy would be relieved from anxiety on her account, and then--who could tell?--maybe they would influence Philip. Maybe Uncle Dick would overlook his loss of fortune, and tell him that he never meant to separate them on such a sorry score as that.

The one way which she saw to bring about this desirable consummation was to inform Mr Beecham that she could no longer keep his secret; and that, if he did not come to Willowmere within the week to release her, she would take back the pledge she had given him and explain everything to her relatives.

Having arrived at this resolution, she was restored to a calm state of mind which was wonderful in contrast with the fever of the night. Morning is the time of hope and energy to a healthful nature; and Madge felt this, although the atmosphere was cold and the sky white with its load of snow, which was presently to descend in thick flakes, covering up the last patches of earth and shrub left bare by the glimpses of sunshine that had succeeded the previous fall.

She went about her duties quietly and resolutely; but it was hard to meet the wistful eyes of Dame Crawshay without throwing herself into the arms that would have received her so gladly, and at once tell all. She had, however, made a bargain, and she would keep to it. Aunt Hessy would approve of what she was doing, when the time for explanation came. Uncle Dick was surly at breakfast, and he scarcely spoke to her at dinner. He did not once refer to the cattle show, and he went out to inspect his stock, a discontented and unhappy man.

Madge felt assured that Philip would say nothing more unless he heard from Uncle Dick; nevertheless, she was all day looking out for some sign from him. Old Zachy the postman came twice, and she saw him approach, her heart pausing, then beating quick with excitement. But Zachy brought nothing from her lover. And she was pained as well as disappointed, although she assured herself again that she had not expected anything, and that she had no right to expect anything until Philip received some token of Uncle Dick's kindly intentions. Besides, she argued, it was needful to bear in mind the distracted state he was in about his affairs, and how many things he must have to attend to which could not be postponed on any account. Indeed, she did remember all this, and was so keenly sensible of the cruel effect his misfortunes were producing on his mind, that she was frightened about him--more frightened than she had been even on the occurrence of the accident with the horse.

So, when postman Zachy had made his second and last round in the afternoon, she could not rest until she had consulted Dr Joy regarding Philip's health. Having explained to Aunt Hessy where she was going and why, she started for the village, although the snow had begun to fall in a way which would have made any town-miss who understood what the signs meant glad to stay at home. What the snow meant was to fulfil the threats it had been making for several days, and to come down more heavily than it had done for years.

Dr Joy was surprised to see her on such a gloomy afternoon; but he understood the nature of her visit, after a few words of such necessary explanation as she was at liberty to give.

'And I want you to tell me plainly what his condition is, doctor,' she concluded, 'for I--that is, we are all very anxious about him.'

The good little doctor looked at her earnestly for a moment, as if to assure himself that she was not only desirous of hearing the truth but also able to bear it, and then made reply frankly, but was unable even then to dismount entirely from the hobby which he and his wife rode so diligently in theory.

'You will agree with me, my dear Miss Heathcote, that economy is the great principle which should regulate our lives--not merely economy in finance, but likewise in work, in strength, and in health. I daresay our friend has told you that I spoke to him on this subject.'

'When writing, he mentioned that you had visited him,' she answered, with some nervous anticipations assailing her.

'Well, I warned him then that his condition was extremely precarious. It is, in fact, that condition which when a man has fallen into, it requires him directly to throw up everything, if he cares to live. It requires him to sacrifice fortune, prosperity, and to run away anywhere and do anything to escape it.'

'But how can he do that?'

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